


Letters to Vick

by ere_the_sun_rises (orphan_account)



Series: Letters to Vick [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Courtship, F/M, Falling In Love, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:12:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ere_the_sun_rises
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve knocks a girl's books over. Hilarity, hijinks, feelings and fondue ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters to Vick

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my old FF account (The Lady Bard), taken down with everything else and reposted here.
> 
> Credit to Whedon, Lee, and everyone else. Nothing belongs to me but Vick and her family.

The early morning light streamed gently down through the windows. Steve raised his head and blinked groggily until his eyes adjusted. He shifted lightly onto his back, turned his head on the pillow to watch her snoozing in the sunrays. He was torn between the want to slide his fingers through the tresses of her hair and plant little butterfly kisses on her nose, and her cheeks, but of course he didn’t want to wake her up.

            After a few moments, she showed no signs of stirring, so he lifted the covers with care and slipped out of bed before tucking the coverlet back up around her. She made a soft mumbling noise and turned onto her side, burrowing down into her pillow, strands of auburn hair shifting along her shoulders and her back.

            Steve turned and looked at her, feeling the corners of his mouth turning up. Rare and unexpected were the moments when a perfect picture trussed itself up and dropped at his feet, and loath was he to let one pass by. He backed up slowly, sat in the chair in front of her desk, and found his sketchbook where he had laid it the night before. Flipping it to a new page he took up a pencil and looked over at her, curled under the blankets and wrapped deep in slumber.

            He began to sketch out the first spidery outlines.

* * *

 

            New York had been having a rainy spell and he had ducked inside of a shopping mall to escape the torrential downpours. After standing at the doors for ten minutes and seeing no signs of the storm letting up, he got a bit restless and decided to take a walk, turned with his hands jammed into his pockets and strolled down the reflective orange-gold tiles that lined the floor.

            Something in a window had made him squint to try and make out the words flying across the screen and the gal coming for him was so buried under her stack of books that he didn’t register their collision course until it was too late, and they had crashed headlong with surprised yelps and several books had gone to the floor.

            “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he stammered, bending hurriedly to pick up one of the volumes and starting to replace it on the stack before he frowned and took half of it off of her instead. “Here, let me carry some of those.”

            Now he could see her face. She was a pretty gal, with a few freckles and a round face and a real wide smile. “Thanks, I-” she trailed off, and he waited for the typical “Oh, you’re Captain America”, but it never came. Instead, she smiled this big wide smile that looked like it might have split right off her cheeks, and said again, “Thank you. You’re…?”

            “Steve,” he said, hurriedly. “Steve Rogers.” He cleared his throat. “You? Ma’am?”

            “Victoria Gatsby,” she said, looking like she might have moved to shake his hand, but suddenly remembered the weight of the books in her arms. She giggled that nervous giggle again, smiled. “I…most, people…they call me Vick.”

            “Vick Gatsby,” he mused, following her as she began to scurry again, her beret perched haphazardly on her head.

            “Oh, you don’t mind?” she asked him, grinding to a sudden halt that almost sent him knocking into her again. “Helping me carry these?”

            “It’s not a problem, ma’am,” he assured her, and she started off again, babbling on. “You sure? I mean, I could buy you a pretzel or something…”

            “That won’t be necessary, ma’am,” he reassured, weaving after her.

            She giggled again, maybe a bit more nervously than before. “Sorry. I don’t get talked to by a lot of guys. It just makes me…chattery.” She turned abruptly, and he had to halt again as she turned around and surveyed him.

            “Where did you get your jacket?” she asked him, squinting intently at it. “It’s a nice jacket.”

            “I- thank you…ma’am…”

            She shook her head suddenly. “I’m _really_ sorry, pelting you with all these questions, we barely know each other, but my family’s been in the military for a long time-” it was as if she had said magic words, because Steve could feel his brain circuits working (here he went thinking _circuits_ ; obviously he’d spent too much time around Tony) and jolting. “-and I’ve met a few airmen, they had jackets like that, but not quite the same.”

            “Did you say your family’s been in the service for a long time?” he asked on the tail of her sentence, and she nodded vigorously as she started walking off again. “Did anyone serve in the second World War, ma’am?”

            “Well, there was my grand-pap,” she tossed over her shoulder, “He was a radioman until they assigned him to infantry. I think he fought most in North Africa.” She frowned. “I’m pretty sure my dad’s granddad joined the Navy after Pearl Harbor. I heard lots of stories about the war days, but they both died when I was a teenager and I haven’t talked about it in a while.”

            Steve felt his heart sinking. All of the men who had gone to the same war were dying now, and he barely knew what to do with himself, still young and reawakened into a world so different he could barely recognize it.

            They exited into the parking garage, and she led him to a little black Volkswagen and opened the passenger door with a little bit of maneuvering to set the books down into the seat. “Thanks so much,” she breathed, when all of the volumes had been set down, wiping her forehead and closing the door.

            He glanced outside. At last, the rain was slowing, and maybe he could get on his way again. Vick spoke behind him, and he turned and raised his eyebrows. “Can I tell you a secret?”

            Steve blinked, and shrugged. “If you like, ma’am.”

            Vick leaned on her car, took a quick look around, and said softly: “Have you ever seen the name Marlowe J. Bard?”

            Steve frowned. He thought he recalled Bruce or somebody crowing about how great her work was. “A…a writer?”

            She nodded, then she smiled slightly. “That’s me.”

            He frowned at her, brows furrowing in confusion. “But…ma’am, I…thought you were…”

            “Vick Gatsby is my _real_ name,” she explained, shrugging. “Marlowe J. Bard’s a pseudonym. I…I don’t like being oogled.” She gave him a sheepish look.

            He cocked his head sideways, and he said, “You…”

            “Knew you were Captain America?” her smile took on a drier quality. “Yeah. I knew the second I saw you. But I didn’t want to make a fuss. I know, I would _hate_ that…” she shook her head suddenly, rapidly.

            “You write?” he asked quietly. “I…I draw.”

            Her face seemed to brighten right away, and she said, “Really? I…I draw sometimes…doodle really, I…I’m not that good.” She smiled again, shy. “I…it’s nice. To meet a fellow artist.”

            Steve nodded in agreement. “Well…” he held out his hand, and she looked at it a moment before she took it and shook. “Ms. Gatsby.”

            She gave him a fleeting smile, and he nodded to her with a little two-finger salute and started to go before she called out after him, “Wait.”

            He turned around to see her fiddling with a little memo pad and a pen, and he was expecting a request for an autograph before she had scribbled something down on it and ripped the sheet out to hand to him. “I realize it’s a little old-fashioned, but…here’s my mailing address. Send me…a letter. A picture.” She flashed him a smile, and he realized with a start that her eyes were very, very blue.

            “Will you send me something back?” he asked her, feeling just a little bit breathless like he hadn’t in a long time.

            She nodded furiously, her hair bobbing along with her. “I will. I promise. I…I’ll see you.” She hurried around the side of her car and climbed into the front seat. He stepped back as she turned the keys in the ignition, and raised his hand in farewell as she drove off.

            Steve looked down to the slip of paper clutched in his hand, gazed over the slightly-untidy scrawl bearing the address before tucking it into his pocket.

* * *

 

            Steve raised his head when he heard her inhale deeply. He thought for a moment she might wake up, but she only burrowed her head down into the pillow and stilled again, breathing softly and slowly.

            He smiled, returned his eyes to the drawing and continued to sketch.

* * *

 

            He ended up writing his first letter to her that night. The image of one of the streets had stuck with him so he ended up drawing that and sending it to her, the words seeming to jump out of his pen, and he put down his story for her until his wrist ached. He sent it off to her the next morning and found himself eagerly awaiting a reply.

            Steve was fairly giddy to find an envelope in his box- a _thick_ envelope, he noted- and took it immediately up to open it and read what was inside.

            When he split the envelope and looked inside he pulled forth several sheets of stationary edged in winding Celtic knots, covered in writing from end to end. _That’s such an amazing story, Steve,_ she wrote, _I don’t even think I could come up with that._ The last three pages he found were neater, contained a short story of a girl walking through a neighborhood she barely recognized after returning, having been away for thirty years.

            He sent one back to her the next day, with a drawing of the little girl mentioned by the narrator. Her next piece was about that little girl growing up, her moments of success and her low ones, and finally her exit into the world like a soldier to war. They traded these letters every few days, and it was a few weeks before he chewed on the end of his pencil for a while, before scrawling a ‘ _P.S. You free for lunch Saturday?’_

            She was.

            Vick was waiting at the door of the place across the street from Stark Tower when he strolled up, and she smiled at him, just as effectively contagious as before. “Hey,” she said, and the chipper greeting coupled up with the grin made his own smile come out bright as the hiding sun. The skies were overcast that day. Rain was just a whisper, but a whisper nonetheless.

            “Ms. Gatsby?” he offered her his arm. She looked at him, a little bewildered. He raised his eyebrows, bent a little and held out his elbow. “Oh,” she realized, taking hold of his arm and smiling radiantly up at him as he took her inside.

            They were seated a few moments after they arrived and within moments they were in a discussion about their work- mostly her work, just because she was willing to talk about it and it was interesting to listen.

            She had just finished likening one of her characters to Shakespeare’s Henry V (and finally, a comparison Steve could get) when she stopped suddenly, and sheepishly rubbed at the back of her neck. “Sorry, I’m…not talking you to death, am I?”

            He shook his head, rapidly, frowning, wondering where he had given the impression. “No, no…why would you…?”

            “Just…it’s a bit of a turn-off…” she mumbled, looking down at her coffee and stirring it, setting her chin in her other hand. “I’ve…I mean, people don’t want to hear about all of that.” She shrugged, stirred at her coffee and seized it for a sudden long gulp.

            “I liked it,” he said quietly, fiddling with the cuff of his jacket. “Um.”

            “What’s it like at your work?” she questioned suddenly, looking up at him eagerly.

            “Well…” he looked down at his sleeve again, and pursed his lips. “We make a good team. Most of the time. I mean. We look real in-sync and all in a fight but sometimes we don’t always get along-”

            “Of course,” she said, nodding rapidly so that her hair bounced. “Conflict’s a part of human nature. Without it…” she set down her coffee, and shrugged her shoulders. “Well, we’d all be a bunch of colorless uniform creatures. And I’d be out of work.” She quirked a sudden smile, and grinned sheepishly. “I’m sorry, I interrupted…”

            “No, no, it’s fine,” he reassured her, and she seized her coffee again. He cleared his throat, rapped on the table a little. She set her drink down. “What are they all like? Your…co-workers, I mean?”

            “Well…” he tapped a little on the table rim, trying to think of how to talk about them, but everything sounded stupid in his head. Steve had never been a words kind of guy.

            When he looked up at Vick, maybe to say _I don’t know_ in a frightened high school freshman kind of way, she was already smiling, and she leaned across the table and told him “Send me pictures.”

* * *

 

            He looked up again this time, not because she had stirred, but because he just wanted to look at her as the sun came in through the windows and turned her hair into some kind of deep, dark fire. Her side rose and fell slowly, a lock of hair slipped down across her back, and his hand flew on.

* * *

 

            The first picture he sent her was of Tony. Maybe because the guy had so much character, it was almost too easy to recreate him with pencils and paper. The next one was of Bruce, a moment Steve had caught when he was scribbling out a long string of numbers with his hair mussed and spilling over his forehead, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, the buttons off on his shirt and his tongue poking out slightly. Thor was immortalized (well, not that he _needed_ immortalizing, it was just a term) with Mjölnir sitting down by his feet and one of those odd little toaster pastries in one hand, a cup of coffee in another. He’d smiled enough while drawing it out, he could only imagine what she had looked like when she’d gotten it. Maybe that’s what he’d been smiling about after all.

            Somehow Clint and Natasha ended up in a picture together, when she’d fallen asleep on his shoulder and he’d decided it was perfect, no matter how much she would go on about owing debts and red in the ledger. _Describing someone is about who they are,_ Vick wrote, _not who they say they are._

            After he sent that one, her next letter came bearing a photograph of a little bulletin board, sporting all of the portraits and carrying an empty space in the middle.

            _This one’s for you._

Though the others had come easily, trying to put himself on paper was a different matter. _Always easy to describe someone else_ , she wrote, _not as easy to do the same for yourself. Isn’t it funny, how we’re supposed to know ourselves best?_

            Something itched at his brain as he read the words, over and over, but he just couldn’t formulate a word or a vision or anything of the idea lurking in the corners of his mind.

            Vick had some seriously deep thoughts, Steve found, ones he never would have expected from such a (and his cheeks flamed as soon as he thought it) cute gal. The others could laugh all they wanted, he still thought it was strange to think of her like that when he’d only ever met her twice. Especially when she sent him things that made him sit down and think about the mysteries of human nature for hours. Someday he had to introduce her to Tony and Bruce. They’d get along like peas in a pod. Theoretically. Ah, gosh darn it; there he goes with the science words again.

            The third time they met was in Central Park- it wasn’t even planned, he’d just sat down on one of the benches and looked around, swept his eyes over the grass and the trees and the pond and all of the kids playing before he’d noticed that the gal sitting next to him absorbed into her laptop was the only Victoria Gatsby.

            “I come here sometimes,” she said, shrugging, once all of the appropriate _oh, gosh, hi_ ’s and _fancy meeting you here_ ’s had been given. “Reminds me of the Common back in Boston. I’ve lived there, the past few years, but I came here just recently, I’ve always wanted to live in New York.”

            “Which borough?” he questioned, facing her leaning on the back of the bench.

            “Here in Manhattan,” she replied, without missing a beat. “SoHo. Guess it’s fitting. Artist neighborhood and all.” She looked back to her screen, chewed a little on her lip, tapped out a few more words, her fingers almost dancing on the keys.

            “What are you working on?” he asked her, a moment after they had stretched into silence. She tapped out a few more words before she raised her head and told him, “A long and complicated story of a war.” She sighed. “And all of it, a backdrop to how individual beings interact. That’s what all stories are, in substance.”

            He peered down at her screen when she turned it to show him, and he read just a bit, set in a time nearly fifteen years ago for her, and fifty-four into the future for him. “It’s a bit tricky remembering what it was like back then,” she told him, when he had finished looking it over. “I was only seven.” She looked sheepish, must have suddenly registered the look on his face. “I guess it’s still pretty futuristic for you, yeah?”

            “What was it like growing up in your time?” he asked, quiet, feeling old just for saying it.

            She leaned back, sighed, stared at the clouds as she racked her memories. “Well. Not as many computers. Telephones were still hooked up to the wall. Kids actually had to go outside and entertain themselves.” She ran a hand through her hair, smiled a bit. “I don’t remember much of growing up.”

            Steve shrugged, crossing his legs, knee bouncing. “See many guys?”

            Vick shook her head. “Nah, I…wasn’t really their type. Too mouthy, not pretty enough to cover it.” There’s only a hint of the bitterness there, like it’s mostly faded but it’s still lingering somewhere, giving her those nervous giggles and insecure looks.

            Steve frowned at her a little, hands suddenly feeling loose and cumbersome in his lap where they _weren’t doing anything_ , and they itched to move and make themselves useful.

            “Do you want to go to dinner tonight?” he asked her, and she looked at him suddenly, oddly, brow creasing just a little bit in the middle.

            “Like…a date?” she asked, and darn it, stop blushing, Steve. “Uh…y-yeah, I guess, if that’s…okay? With you?”

            For a moment he was afraid he’d said the wrong thing, but then she was smiling again and asked him what time.

            “I’ll pick you up at,” he fished for a time in his head, “eight.”

            “I’ll be waiting,” she promised, with that little smile, and he didn’t know why the prospect excited and terrified him at once.

* * *

 

            Her hair fell in waves across her back, shoulders. Like nutmeg, red-brown, sharp and rich against the pale of her skin, the gentle curve of her shoulder, the soft green of the bed sheets.

            Steve turned to the window. The light outside was fading as clouds began to cover the newborn sun, and he chanced a quick peek at her, still asleep, and reached over to turn his lamp on to the dimmest setting. The light was just enough, and she snoozed blissfully on, as the lights faded to just the little lamp on the desk.

* * *

 

            They had fussed over him when they’d found out he had a _date_ \- and if he was blushing just calling it that then Steve Rogers didn’t know _what_ he was going to do with himself- and by the time he’d gotten himself out of the door he was slightly worried he was going to be late.

            Tony had first insisted on getting him a reservation someplace real fancy and telling him to put everything on his card- after much protesting they’d compromised on a _four_ -star restaurant, because Tony insisted “you’re never gonna keep a girl taking her to a three-star place.” After he had come out all dressed up he’d been assaulted on both sides by Clint and Tasha, the first spraying him with something woodsy and the second tucking a red rose into his lapel and shoving a bouquet of the red and white blooms into his hand. “Rack up on the innuendo,” Clint advised. “No dirty jokes,” said Tasha. “Right,” replied Steve, nervously.

            Thor had clapped his huge hands onto his shoulders and boomed his congratulations for the beginning of his courtship, and he hadn’t been able to escape the iron grip until Bruce had, somehow, quietly freed him and pushed him out the door, promising he wouldn’t let them follow after him and the lady friend.

            _Lady friend._ He blushed while he drove, chanced a nervous glance at the bouquet in the passenger’s seat. _Lady friend?_ He supposed it was appropriate…maybe…well…she was a lady…and she was his friend? So…lady friend, logically.

            He shook his head. _Logically. That’s three, Steve._

Steve pulled up to the front of her place, an old red-front house squished between the buildings on either side, quite unassuming. It reminded him of her already, and he smiled to himself, remembering at the last second to grab the roses before he took the three steps up to the door and knocked.

            A few moments later she opened the door, and when he drew a breath in to greet her it caught a little.

            Vick was wrapped into a green evening gown, shimmering blue under the light, picking up on her eyes and setting off her hair.

            “-hi,” he said, awkwardly holding out the bouquet Tasha had so thoughtfully provided, and really, he’d have to thank her later because Vick made a little noise of delight and beckoned him inside while she searched around for a vase.

            Her little flat was sparsely furnished and somewhat tidy, though every flat surface was covered in papers with writing margin-to-margin. “Tony picked out a real nice place,” he told her, looking around. “Not too far from here.”

            “What kind of place?” she questioned, and as she stepped up close to him he offered his arm, and she took it and followed him down to the car.

            “Steak, apparently,” he answered, and she made an appreciative “ooh” and climbed into the passenger’s seat beside him.

* * *

 

            A small rumble echoed outside the window. Steve turned and watched a small fork of lightning flash, miles away. A storm was coming, but here inside they were safe from the rains. Steve turned back to her, watched her back rise and fall gently, blissfully unawares. He smiled, fondly, feeling that flutter in his chest that was all for her.

* * *

 

            Their first date was so lovely he was breathless and _alive_ when he brought her back, so alive, and he wondered if he had been asleep for seventy years, and she had just woken him up.

            They had their second date in the park, when they went for a ride in one of the horse-drawn carriages. Vick stood cooing at the matching steeds for a few minutes, recounting her stories of summer camp and being so short she had to ride an ill-tempered pony named Peanut. “I’ve grown since then,” she added after, stroking the left horse’s velvety nose. “A whole two inches. I even got to ride Elmer my last year. Joke was on me, though, he was worse than Peanut.”

            She had a penchant for making him smile. He realized on their third date that they were holding hands walking, and his whole face felt hot, skin tingling where it touched hers. “I just love this place,” she sighed, bringing his attention back to focus. “The lights. Central Park. Broadway, I…” she grinned suddenly, looking up at him with a sparkle in her eyes that took his breath away. “…you.” Her lips pressed together into a smile, and Steve let out a sudden breath he didn’t know he had been holding. Their eyes locked, and he couldn’t look away, and when she closed her eyes and slid her hands up to his elbows he rested his palms lightly on her waist and kissed her.

            “Technically you said you loved me too,” he said after, as they continued down the street, fingers twined together and hands swinging lazily back and forth.

            “Did I?” she mused. “S’pose I did.”

            “So are we…” he trailed off, searching helplessly for the words. “…a thing? Now?”

            “Steady?” suggested Vick, always the one to have them. “A couple? Boyfriend-girlfriend?”

            “Yeah,” he said shyly, face heating up again.

            “Well,” Vick replied, quite concise, “Do you _want_ to be?”

            Steve might not have been good with words, but he could picture them together in the future, and suddenly he was so full of love it ached a little bit, but in a good way. He nodded at her, and she smiled up at him, squeezing his hand and then hugging his entire arm, walking close along with him as the sun set and the hour of partings and promises of _soon_ crept closer on them.

            “Vick?” he asked.

            “Yes, Steve?”

            “I love you, too.”

* * *

 

            The clouds broke and the rain began to fall. Steve looked at his watch, lying on the desk, and read 9:23 a.m. He turned back to her and watched her sleep peacefully through the rain, either unknowing or uncaring of the storm.

            Or maybe, even in sleep, she knew he would always keep her safe.

* * *

 

            It didn’t take long for the team to find out that he, Steve Rogers, the ninety-year-old-virgin (thanks, Tony), had himself a _girlfriend_. All it had taken was one phone call to her one evening and the cameras had caught the whole thing.

            “What did I tell you?” crowed Tony, while Thor clapped him merrily on the back (he’d choked on his cereal when Tasha had casually remarked about the lucky lady, though it wasn’t the only reason he was turning red) and congratulated him on his success.

            He wolfed down the rest of his breakfast and skedaddled before Clint could get too far in-depth about his _bedroom advice_ , turning badly red and going out so fast he was in the elevator before he realized he’d forgotten to put pants on.

            Steve stopped the elevator and took the walk of shame back into the penthouse, slinking off into his room and pulling his trousers on, cinching a belt and checking he had everything else in order before he left this time.

            As he made his second exit, Bruce looked up from where he was quietly sipping coffee, and said, “Invite her over. We’d love to meet her.”

            Steve wasn’t sure if it was sarcasm or not. He certainly had plenty of fears about what might possibly happen if she came to the tower. Thor might zap her. Or Clint might “accidentally” tranq her. Or Tony could _blow her up_.

            Maybe he was overthinking it, just a little bit…

            His inner monologue about the worst case scenario was interrupted by one of the SHIELD personnel showing up and telling him Director Fury had requested he show up now. He footed it to the man’s office, never one to be late.

            “You wanted to see me?” he said, sounding almost meek as he came inside of the office, closing the door with a soft _click_ behind him.

            Fury leaned forward on the desk, folding his fingers together. “It’s come to my attention, Captain Rogers,” he said, “that you’ve been seeing a girl the past few weeks.”

            Steve swallowed hard, as the director slid a file folder across the desk. He opened it and met a photo of her face, frozen in a thousand-yard stare he’d grown accustomed to, the one she used when she was thinking. She was sitting at her window, and the date from the camera below read from last night. _So you’re sending spyware after her now?_ He swallowed hard, quashed the anger and looked to the information on the papers. _Victoria Gatsby, Age: 22, Sex: F, Father: Cpt. Shep Gatsby (US NV), Mother: Mrs. Jenna Gatsby._ He nodded slowly, suddenly unable to meet Fury’s eye. “Two weeks we’ve been…steady, sir.”

            “Right.” Fury nodded slowly. “Look at me, Rogers.” Steve did so, met his gaze and held it there as he talked. “This is standard procedure. You defend the people, and you put yourself into harm’s way to do so. That’s something you know and something you’re used to.” Steve nodded. Fury looked him dead on again, giving that straight-through-you-like-a-bayonet eye that made everyone flinch. “But being affiliated with you…” he tapped the picture. “That can put _her_ in harm’s way too.”

            Suddenly the room felt cold. Steve shook his head a little, frowning. “N-no, I’m…”

            “You’re a defender of this world,” said Fury, “you have a lot of enemies out there. Some of them will try to take what is closest to you.” He tapped the picture again.

            Steve swallowed, and felt something like a ball of ice sitting in the pit of his stomach.

            “Just know that,” said Fury. “It’s a risk that both of you have to be willing to take.”

            Steve rushed down to her house as soon as he got off work, actually _ran_ down to her house and knocked frantically on the door.

            There was a frown on her face when she opened it, asked “Steve?” before he half-pushed, half-carried her inside and just stood there in the foyer, holding her as close as he could possibly hold her and burying his face in her neck while the tears came in torrents.

            Vick made him sit on the couch and pushed a cup of something hot and very strong into his hands, sitting down beside him and waiting until he had calmed down a bit before asking what was wrong.

            “D-Director Fury,” he finally managed, and once the first words were out the rest came pouring after them, about how much he loved her and couldn’t even stand to think about someone trying to hurt her because he could never let anyone hurt her and he lost Bucky and Peggy and Howard and everyone and he couldn’t lose her too.

            When he’d finally trailed off into silence he stared at the swirling depths of the tea before throwing it all back, offended by the darkness of it- really, it looked _evil_ -and set it down on the coffee table.

            Vick slid slowly closer until their thighs were pressed snugly together, and leaned over, wrapping her arms around him and leaning her head on his shoulder. “You’re not gonna lose me,” she said, with such a quiet intensity it was startling. “I promise, Steve, I don’t care how many evil psychos and super villains come after me. None of that’s worth leaving you. None of that means I love you any less.”

            “What if I can’t keep you safe?” he whispered, finally, squeezing her tiny hands, crisscrossed with lines and callouses from pens and keys and book spines, pages and notebooks and stacks of binders. He buried his nose in her hair and closed his eyes, smelling her shampoo and the faint trace of the cardamom that she used so much in her cooking.

            “You will,” she promised, tucking her head under his chin and letting him wrap her up and hold her close. “You can and you will.”

* * *

 

            Steve turned his pencil and began to shade in the outlines, focused on his work as the rain lashed at the windows. He heard a stir and looked up at the bed, but she only rolled over onto her back and slept on, though he knew soon she would be awake.

* * *

 

            It was still a few weeks before he finally felt comfortable enough that she could handle what the others would throw at her, before he asked her to come and meet his team. His friends. He would talk to them beforehand about no lightning, no arrows, and especially, _no explosives_. And besides, he could always ask Bruce to look out for her. He had a feeling that Dr. Banner was planning on it anyway, but he’d still ask.

            Vick happily agreed to come to dinner and Tony declared he was cooking, which made Steve edgy with the _fire_ involved, but Pepper would be there too, and that eased his nerves a bit. Vick assured him that after being raised in an extended family of sailors (and a few from the other branches for good measure), she was good with whatever his crowd could throw at her, though she did warn him if it involved sports and/or throwing and catching, she would probably totally fail it, if it mattered. He made a mental note for _no sports_ and fretted over the plans until Bruce had told him to go blow off steam, which had been a friendly suggestion except for the fact that Clint started making suggestive hand motions and he had to go before Tony mistook him for a tomato and took him to the cutting board.

            That Friday evening he got a call from her, saying she was on her way on the subway and she was looking forward to seeing everyone. Steve got himself dressed, put on the buttoned-up shirt and slacks and fixed his hair at least eight times before he heard a rap at the door, and dashed out calling “She’s here! (Oh lord oh lord oh lord she’s here)” and taking a deep breath and opening the door to her.

            “Hey,” she said, giving him a little smile and he gave her a nervous smile back, and she came inside. She was wearing a soft black sweater he’d seen before (felt before), and she stepped inside, looking about widely before asking softly where she should set her bag down.

            “I’ll take that for you,” Bruce offered, and whisked it off back to the suites. That was the last moment of peace.

            “So, this is the famous Vick Gatsby- we’ve heard _so_ much about you, darling- and I would like to thank you on behalf of the rest of the team for willing to compromise for a ninety-year-old virgin-”

            “I apologize for him,” said Pepper, tugging Tony back by an ear, “He has no brain-to-mouth filter.”

            Clint stepped up then, peering at her sweater far closer than Steve really thought was necessary, and then said, incredulous, “What’d you do to get _those_?”

            “Okay…” muttered Tasha, shoving him off towards the bar. Tony came back after a short intense discussion with Pepper, babbling again, “Okay, sorry about the peering into your privacy and all. I bet Fury does enough of it though, right? He didn’t take a naked pic, did he?”

            Steve was about to die. His head was about to combust and he was going to die of embarrassment, and on _her_ behalf.

            Vick, though, seemed quite nonplussed, instead leaned forward and squinted at where the blue light of the arc reactor was pulsing through Tony’s shirt. “What’s this?” she asked, tapping curiously at the metal protrusion.

            “Hey, hey, hey _don’ttouchthat_ ,” squawked Tony, jumping back and throwing up his fists in a boxing stance. “I will hurt you, hands off.”

            “Jesus,” Vick muttered, starting to chuckle, “What, you’ll _hurt_ me? You’d need the suit.”

            There was a whoop from Clint, who was grinning like a gleeful schoolboy and sniggering, “Apply cool water to area of burn.”

            Tony scowled, never one to be bested in what was quickly turning into a battle of wits. “I wouldn’t need the suit, thank you. I can do a few things outside it too.”

            “My father was a military man,” she said, in a deceptively soft voice. “I went through boot camp when I was a girl. I could snap a salute before I could walk. My babysitters were decorated Navy pilots. Their sea stories were my _lullabies_.”

            “You seem to forget that I am _the_ Iron Man,” said Tony, with a dry chuckle and a snort. “I amuse myself.”

            Vick narrowed her eyes just slightly, then spoke in the same cool voice as before, “You forget, _I’m_ a multi-national bestseller whose settings are backdrops to the curious interplay of chemicals and pieces of the human mind, and what happens between them. What psychological marks define us, what makes us the complex individuals that we are? I could deconstruct your brain in twenty-four hours and tell you exactly what makes you tick, Mr. Stark. To the dime that the polo horse turns on.”

            There was a sudden, very loud silence, and Steve felt a little bit dazed. He hadn’t had cause to see this side of her before, but maybe that was a good thing…

            Then, a slow movement, as Tasha turned to Steve. “Thought you said your girlfriend was a writer.”

            “I’m an analyst,” offered Vick, with her usual bright smile that Steve had never been happier to see. “They’re Siamese twins. They can’t work without the other.”

            Then Tasha had hooked her arm through Vick’s and taken her down to the lounge. “We’re going to be great friends, Ms. Gatsby.”

            Steve let out a sudden breath as the others dispersed into the lounge, and Tony had slunk off to the kitchen (though Steve knew from practice he would be better in fifteen minutes, once he had swallowed the bitter taste of grudging respect, preferably with cocktails), and Bruce was behind him again, looking concernedly up at him. “How’d it go?”

            “Fine,” said Steve, suddenly unable to help a huge smile. “Fine, I…she was sharper than Tony and made friends with Tasha and… _wow_.”

            Bruce nodded, eyebrows creeping up. “Some girl.”

            “Tell me about it,” Steve murmured weakly, and Bruce patted his back and the two descended after the others, Thor and Vick already deep in discussion about medieval elements of storytelling.

            He didn’t actually talk to her much over the evening, just watched her get acquainted with everyone. He sat by her at dinner, and the moment she realized Tony had pulled out the Indian cookbook for this particular occasion the ice broke and she and him and Bruce fell deep into discussion about the culture in question (apparently, one of the many places she’d lived growing up), and her absolute second-favorite kind of food ever (following Italian, nothing ever beat that, according to her). She never forgot him though, because she always had some point of contact with him, a hand on his knee or his elbow, and she’d pat or squeeze occasionally, just to say she knew he was there and thank you for all of these people.

            Sometimes Steve felt like thanking someone too, he just didn’t know who he would.

            They stuck around a bit after dinner, just relaxing on all of the couches before Bruce stood up, proclaimed they were all going out to enjoy themselves, and ushered everybody but Vick and Steve out the door, pausing to wink as he grabbed his jacket. The gesture did not go unnoticed by Clint, who made a show of jabbing his tongue through an OK sign before Tasha yanked him out the door and shut it with a snap.

            Vick sighed a little, relaxed back into the furniture and shut her eyes. “Your friends are _great_.”

            “I was worried they would…” Steve trailed off, flushing slightly. “I don’t know.”

            “Scare me?” she shrugged. “Nah. Like I said, I was raised by some of the scariest people I know.” She opened her eyes again, sat up and gave him a sudden look that said, _I just realized, we’re alone._

            Steve swallowed, suddenly edgy for some reason. “You want to…see my room?” the words sounded stupid as soon as he said them, and he resisted the urge to do what Clint would call a face-palm.

            She followed him down the hall, and when he opened the door and waved her in he realized her bag was sitting neatly at the foot of his bed.

            “My eighth grade history teacher had a replica of this poster,” she said wonderingly, tearing his attention to the recruitment slogan he had stuck up on the wall.

            “Yeah, I guess the old ones would all be in museums,” he replied, moving up behind her and placing his hand on the small of her back, because he could. He kissed the top of her head, then moved back to sit on the edge of the bed and tug off his shoes.

            “Did you draw these?” she asked him, looking now at the bulletin board up over his desk.

            “Yeah,” he said, watching her cock her head at them and peer at them each in turn.

            “It’s big in here,” she mused, gawping around at the high ceiling before flopping back onto the bed and rolling onto her side to look at him. “Hi,” she murmured.

            “Hey,” he said quietly, laying back to put them at eye level and lean over to kiss her, because how could he not, with her wearing the red lipstick he was so fond of (the red lipstick that always ended up smudged on _his_ lips, cheeks, neck, chin, jaw)?

            A few seconds later he rolled over her, pulling her up over him and sighing happily as her hands roamed over his shoulders. They’d kissed like this before, mostly on the couch when they’d supposed to have been watching a movie, and she’d talked it out with him before that she wasn’t going to be horrified if he got a little _excited_ on those occasions (in fact, if Steve hadn’t known better she actually seemed to maybe _like_ it).

            Something crinkled under his back and he frowned, digging around and pulling out a creased piece of paper, flipped it open and read; _I tapped into Tony’s security systems and disabled all the audio/visual recording devices in the room. Be safe! XO, Pepper._

            “Steve?” Vick peered around the note. “You okay?”

            Steve reached out to his nightstand and set the paper down, turning back to her and splaying his hands across her back, and how was she so small? “Do you want to…stay the night?” he asked, thumbs pressing lightly into her sweater.

            She sat up a bit, elbows braced on his chest. “You want me to stay over?”

            He nodded, as best he could, with his head against the covers. “Bathroom’s over there, if you want to…change or anything.” He hoped he wasn’t flushing too badly, but she gave him that adoring smile she did whenever he blushed, kissed the tip of his nose and whispered, “I’ll be right back.” She snatched her bag and scurried off almost gleefully to the W.C. and shut the door behind her.

            Steve sat up a bit, sighing and loosening the cuffs on his sleeves, reclining onto the pillows and shutting his eyes, trying not to let his nerves run loose. So deep was he lost in his contemplations that he didn’t notice the door opening with a soft _snick_ until he opened his eyes and saw her standing there in a sheer black nightdress that barely covered her mid-thighs (and on that note it revealed much more than it covered), hands folded in front of her, looking at him almost bashfully.

            But, no, it wasn’t bashful like he’d seen her, and she’d had to have some sort of confidence to put that…outfit…on. And there was some sort of look in her eyes, a heated look, as her teeth worried at her lower lip.

            Steve sat up a bit, suddenly unable to tear his eyes off of the smooth shift of the fabric over her curves. He’d always loved curves, and he could see now she had ‘em in all the right places, and he understood now what it was to be “hot under the collar”, because he was suddenly very stuffy in his shirt and she looked _oh_ -so-lovely in that black nightie…

            “That’s…” he made and effort to speak, and had to stop and gulp. “Real pretty, Vick.”

            She nodded at him, stretched slow and luxurious like a cat, hands behind her head and legs splayed slightly apart. “French lace,” was her only reply.

            He swallowed again, thickly, his throat tight. “Very nice.”

            “It’s not very comfortable, though,” she sighed, dropping the pose and sauntering closer, and if he didn’t know better he’d think she was swaying her hips like that on purpose. It was like a snake charmer’s flute, entranced him. “Help me out of it, sweetheart?”

            Steve’s breath quickened, and he moved quickly to sit up. “Yes.” His hands were shaking as he reached for the hem, and gently lifted it up over her head, staring widely at the pale skin beneath, contrasting sharply with the black lingerie and the bright ruby of her lips and that made her _eyes_ look really _blue_ and _wow._

She did it again, that _Steve -you’re-blushing_ smile again, and guided his hands around to the back, where her… _brassiere…_ clasped, and just the thought of it made the heat rise another notch in his cheeks.

            “I-I’ve n-never done this b-before,” he said in a rush, stuttering when she curled his fingers around the band in the back.

            Vick paused. She let his hands go, and they dropped down, skimmed over her sides until they rested at her waist, a familiar ground except it was bare skin, and she reached down and laced their fingers together. “Do you _want_ to?”

            Steve swallowed, again, and let his eyes wander, over the smooth, full curves and then up to her lips, where they bent into a light smile, and Steve decided right then and there that that was the most beautiful curve of all. The love and the question in her eyes gave him courage, made him brave. He nodded.

            Gently, she squeezed his hands. “You’re sure?”

            He nodded again, looked up at her and said as steadily as he could manage, “Yes. I want to.”

            Vick smiled, and let his hands go, and let out a little squeal of delight when he lifted her up and laid back on the pillows, pulling her over him and sitting his hands first on her waist, letting them make a gradual slide down to her hips. His shirt was entirely too hot now, and perhaps she had realized it, because she sat up over him, reached for the buttons and began to undo them. He watched her face while she focused, gnawing on her lip and brow furrowing just slightly as the lights went down outside. She worked the last one free, tugged it out from where it had been tucked into his pants, and he sat up just enough to shrug it off and drop it somewhere on the floor, shoving down that part of him that said _pick it up and fold it, Steven_ because she was kissing him again and soon he forgot all about it.

            Her…breasts (darn it, Steve Rogers, stop blushing, you can do this) were pressing into his chest, and his pants were tighter by the second, the zipper straining with every hot, excited flutter in the pit of his stomach. Without breaking the kiss he smoothed his hands up over her back, found the clasp that held her…underthings together, and started to fumble at it (come on, it can’t be _that_ hard).

            Unfortunately, he took long enough that Vick sat up, tearing herself away and turning around to put her back at his face. On the plus side, it did make the curve of her bum press quite nicely, as she guided his hands up to the clasps and unhooked it with practiced ease. “Like this.”

            She held out her arms in front of her and let him slide it off, dropping it off by his shirt and putting his hands on her hips to gently guide her back around. Vick obliged him, turning back around and settling into his lap, smoothing her hands lightly over his heaving abs.

            Steve’s breath caught harshly in his throat, eyes going wide and face heating to high heaven when he saw her in all of her bare glory, and for the first time maybe her smile was just the slightest bit shy, with a touch of _never-lose-that-blush-Steven-Rogers._ He raised a hand, reached tentatively, looking to her questioningly. She nodded at him, and he curled his hand around one perfect pale globe, careful for the rough callouses he knew he had from the shield. He hadn’t done this before, but he’d thought about it plenty, and palming and squeezing just so came easier than he thought it would. They seemed to fit into his hands just perfectly, like she’d been made for him, or him for her. Or both. He rubbed a thumb gently over the pale tip of rose, watched as her breath hitched and her thighs pressed together and she reached for his belt buckle.

            The thin stripe of leather slid out of the loops like a snake, followed the other garments to the floor, paved the way for his trousers, which came off next with a bit of wiggling on his part. Vick leaned forward again, and why was chest-to-chest so much better than hands? They’d slipped hands under shirts before, but it hadn’t been nearly so intense a feeling as just having skin pressed to skin, grinding together and making his heart pound in his chest, hers thumping harshly in her breast, he could feel it juddering against his skin.

            Vick leaned down and kissed him again, palming the inside of his thigh, and Steve broke off with a startled gasp at the squeeze in the muscles there.

            Vick was nibbling at his neck. “You like this?” she was rubbing him gently through his briefs, palming over the shape of his erection, straining determinedly against the fabric.

            With his breath laboring to get into his lungs and out again, it was difficult to answer. “Uh-huh.” He nodded rapidly, swallowing hard. “That feels good.”

            She smiled at him, sat up on his thighs and skimming her hands down to the waistband of the offending garment, rubbing her thumbs over the curves of his hips. “You’ll like this, then.” She slid them down and tossed them aside too, and then Steve was naked in front of a woman.

            Blushing intensely (he really has to learn to get a handle on that), he flicked his eyes bashfully up to her face, watching for a reaction.

            “Oh wow…” was all she muttered, sliding her hands slowly over the sides of his thighs and staring at his… _nudity,_ (shut up) before crooking this wicked smile, eyebrows crawling up her forehead and lips pressing together. “God bless America,” she half-laughed, and he smiled nervously back, still blushing.

            She smoothed her hands over his wrists, reassured in a soft voice, “Relax.” Steve did his best to obey as she settled down over him, peppered kisses on his lips, then down his throat, nipping lightly on his collarbone before dragging her tongue over one of his nipples, which made him gasp. “Th-that’s r-really-” he tried to choke out some words of confirmation (yes, good), but the sucking and the biting she was doing really restricted his speaking abilities, so he just rested his hand on the back of her head, petting her hair and trying his best not to let any embarrassing noises escape. He trailed off, watched with parted lips as she began to travel downward again, pulse jackhammering in his chest because was she going to do what he thought she was going to do, that thing that Clint suggested and Thor seconded and _ohh_ , that was her hand that is her _hand_.

            “Has anyone ever…?” she asked, holding him around the base with one hand and pushing her hair back with the other.

            He shook his head rapidly, “N-no, j-just…”

            “Just you?” she asked, and he nodded quickly again. She gestured at her hair, and said, “You might want to hold this back. Just a heads up.”

            “O-okay…” he stammered, reaching and pulling it back for her, tucking the strands behind her ears and being careful not to pull.

            “Are yo-oh… _oh_ …” he choked, feeling the flush spreading down his neck and over his chest as she squeezed, just _squeezed_ a little, and even that was enough to make him clench his eyes shut and run through _Star Spangled Man_ to focus on something other than exploding everywhere like the overexcited virgin he was.

            Vick just looked at him softly, lips curling into a soft smile. “Yeah,” she murmured, lowering her head and brushing her lips, just a hint against the tip. “Oh…” Steve mumbled hoarsely, realizing at the last second he was gripping her hair and settled just to let it go, digging his fingers into the sheets instead. She tongued up the underside and he found he just couldn’t stop the _noises_ , and the garbled “oh-” sounded very loud to him, and he was probably only redder across the chest now, sweat beading on his forehead as she teased him.

            “Okay,” she murmured, finally, and he raised his head, breath quickening. “Steady,” she said, and then she pulled the tip into her mouth, sucking softly and placing her hands on his thighs, maybe to remind him _hey, just try not to flytrap me in here or anything._

            Like he was ever going to close that venue off to her. He gripped into the linens, groaned loud and deep and he didn’t actually care, because he had enough running through his head between _don’t push don’t push don’t push_ and _oh god, oh god, don’t stop_ and _I need to stop betting people ten bucks I won’t be surprised by things…_

            Just when Steve thought he’d had it all she squeezed one of his knees and took even more of him in, until he was hitting the side of her cheek and her tongue was dragging against that spot just below the tip and that was it, he was gone, yelping like a kicked dog and he _had_ been kicked with a boot, at least that was what it felt like when he came so intensely there were stars wheeling beneath his eyelids and the ocean was roaring in his ears.

            “Sorry,” he croaked, laying there with his head buzzing, blinking widely at the ceiling. Vick disengaged with a loud, wet pop, tongue peeking out to chase after a bead of white on her lips, and how were they even still red after that…?

            “What’re you sorry for?” questioned Vick, flopping down next to him on the mattress and smoothing his rumpled hair back. “I have to say, I’ve never been so well-received…granted, you don’t have much to go on, but still.” She shrugged a little, as best she could on her side.

            “But I…” he trailed off, frowned. “What about you?”

            A slow _thought-you’d-never-ask_ look crept over her, and she looked off to the side, gnawing on her lip, and that was really nice when she did that, he decided. “You could…return the favor.”

            Steve was confused again. It wasn’t the first time, however. “…how?”

            Vick shifted onto her back, took his hand and guided him up over her. “I’ll show you how.”

            She placed her hands gently on her knees, and he took her cue to push them slowly apart, and then there was only the black lace…knickers (he’s getting a little better, right?) between them. Trying to remember how she’d touched him, he traced the curve of her hipbones with his thumbs, before hooking them into the hem and sliding them down over her legs, discarded them with all of the rest. The heady, intoxicating smell he’d caught earlier hit him, stronger, and he realized that was her. Oh. Her knees parted again, and he followed down into the splay of her thighs, tracing up the soft skin inside of her legs, and then it was all pink and…lady-smelling.

            “Don’t use dry fingers,” she murmured, and absently he nodded, wet the pad of his thumb before settling for running it down along the edge. It looked so…delicate, furled slightly like the petals of a flower, wet and tinged bright pink.

            “Right here,” she murmured, taking his hand and guiding it down to a little cleft, and he pushed just a little and… _oh_. His thumb slipped inside, and it was warm and slick and smooth, and there was a twitch of interest down below, and a soft whine from up above when he drew his finger back out, glistening slightly in the city lights that were left to them.

            Steve looked up at Vick, questioning, before he cautiously drew the digit into his mouth, tasted and looked up sharply when it hit him.

            “Here, too,” she whispered, pointing out a little bud just above her entrance, and she was going to say something else but she was cut off by Steve sliding down, hugging her thighs and putting his tongue to it.

            At the first startled cry he raised his head, concerned. “Did I-?”

            “Don’t stop,” she choked, putting her hands on his head and pushing him back down, “Don’t you dare stop.”

            Steve thought he could do this all day, licking long wet stripes through her and teasing at that little spot, squeezing gently on the one hand she was gripping his with and kissing, sucking lightly, listening to her mumble (“yes, oh, god, right there, please, more, _Steve_ ”) and shift on the bed, writhing as he drove her wild. By the time her thighs clenched and her face screwed up in this intrinsically endearing way and she chanted his name out like it was going to be her salvation; he was hard again, hard like he could drill through walls.

            After a few moments, she rolled over and kissed him again, chasing the taste of her into the corners of his mouth before pushing him onto his back, looking behind her and turning back to smile. “Well,” she asked, “Is the ninety-year-old virgin ready to not be a virgin?” Steve flushed a little, ducked his head and sheepishly smiled, but his thighs were shaking and he was so, _so_ ready. So he nodded at her, and she shifted back a little, closing a light hand around the base, sitting up on her knees. “I’ll lead for a while,” she said, soft, reassuring. “It’ll come naturally. Don’t worry. Just let instinct take over and you’ll be fine.”

            Steve nodded, shifted back into the pillows and watched with his heart hammering as she carefully began the descent. He felt himself nudging at her nether lips and closed his eyes, whispering a short prayer before she began to slide down and he screwed his eyes up tight, actually cursing.

            Vick had to move slow, unaccustomed to his sort of size, but with a little bit of patience she worked him inside, sat down on his hips and rubbed her thumb over a perky red nipple. “So,” she said, breathless and somewhat proud of herself, “How’s it feel?”

            He meant to say, _reallyreallygoodandohgodohgodohgodthisiswonderfulandwhydon’tpeopledothisallthetime_ but what came out sounded more like “ _Unh_.”

            Vick just smiled, pulled his hands up and curled his fingers around her hips. “Hold on here, just roll with it.”

            “Okay,” he said, head spinning because there was no blood up there and he was sure he was going to die but at least he’d be happy.

            “ _Ohmygosh_ ,” he choked out, with the first roll of her hips, jerking back against her, meeting perfectly in the middle. “Oh, oh, oh, Vick-uh…” So lost, always lost, gripping against her and letting predetermined instinctive rhythm take over, and it was so unbearably good and…

            “Oh gosh,” he whispered, eyes snapping open. “Vick, I’m so sorry, I-”

            “Hey, it’s okay,” she said, reassuringly, putting a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. “It’s your first time; it’s like riding a bike. You get better with practice.”

            “No, but,” he frowned, sitting up a little and settling for propping up on his elbows. “You deserve someone…”

            “Oh, please.” She didn’t let him finish, rolled her eyes and leaned down over him to touch their noses together. “I _have_ to get naked with Steve Rogers? Oh, woe is me!” she squeezed his hand and pushed a kiss on him with every statement. “I love you. I want you. There’s no one else for me. Is it just me or are things a little stiffer in there?” She shifted her hips a bit and sure enough he was back to 100% batteries; _that was great, let’s do it again!_

            He blushed a bit, and smiled sheepishly off to the side. “You keep…wiggling.”

            “Steve Rogers: 1, refractory period: 0,” she sighed, in that same sort of gleeful disbelief that had intoned “God bless America” earlier, and she sat back up before resuming her slow rise and fall, rise and fall, and oh, yes, this was good.

            This time, he was determined to hold out and let her go first, so he took hold of her hips again and pulled her up into his rhythm, and soon she was pushing and rocking on him, gasping and gritting out his name, and when he pushed lightly on that blessed spot she went suddenly rigid and squeezed down on him, pulled him right off the precipice with her, and she moaned _Steve_ and he grunted _Vick_ and the two of them ended up tangled there under the covers, her body cradled into his, and she was so small he could almost tuck all the way around her. He would always keep her safe. Steve cuddled her close and kissed her ear until she fell asleep.

* * *

 

            Steve raised his head, and smiled when he saw her eyes were open, and she was watching him. “What are you doing out there, Mr. Rogers?” she quipped, quirking a smile before beckoning him back to her. “It’s warm under here.”

            “Coming, Ms. Gatsby,” he said, affording his sketch of her one last glance before shutting it and setting it on the desk, crossing the carpet and burrowing under the covers to tug her close.

            “It’s cuddle weather,” she yawned, wrapping her arms around him, while he did the same, tangled their legs together, rested her head in the space between his chin and his shoulder. “We should sleep in until noon. And then we should bake cookies. And watch movies and snuggle on the couch.” She gave an affirmative nod, and closed her eyes.

            Steve smiled at her, kissed the top of her head before just resting his cheek there in the tousled auburn waves, and watching the world turn from where he lay, with her.

            He figured it could be one of those days, the slow days that were just beautiful and left him so whole and so full of love that it actually hurt a little.

            Of course, there would be plenty of _love hurts_ when Clint and Tony showed up later with the “Congrats on the Sex” cake.

            But that’s an entirely different story.


End file.
